Apollo

beginning.

March 20, 2021, Saturday

It was a beautiful field of hyacinths hidden in the midst of a hundred colors. From a burnt orange, the kind that warms you even during winter nights, to a grass green that gives off a cool breeze enough to clear the head and calm anyone. From a bright yellow, just above the blue of the sky, to the pinks of a girl's blushing cheeks. And just in the middle, hazed, and barely there, was a couple, beautiful but unaware. I blinked.

"I'm taking mind over matter too seriously." I sat up on my bed and harshly threw the paintbrush I sleep with every night.

Staring at the blank canvas on my table, I sighed. How can I love art so much but not be good at it at all?

I shifted my gaze to the proof of my lack of talent piled up on the far corner of my rather small room. I groaned in frustration. "Oh god, I'm killing too much trees."

After a couple of inhales and exhales, I got up, walked to the window and held my hands to the sunlight. I focused on the colors between my fingers and those covering my nails.

It was a Saturday morning, and just like every Saturday morning there is, every after waking up, I contemplate on how I've slept my desires on becoming an actual artist and how every Friday night, as I try to paint, or draw, or whatever, I fail. Probably, the only masterpiece I have created are the sounds I make as I dream my way into the field of hyacinths.

When I have done enough thinking on how the closest I will ever be to my dreams was if I was asleep, I would then go to the bathroom and wash away the remnants of last night's failure.

By then, it would be seven in the morning, "Good morning, mom." I greeted with a kiss on the cheek. And I would be drinking my warm lemon water as I sit on the rattan chair in our porch witnessing the neighborhood wake up.

I took some time to bathe in the sun as I waited for my mom to finish cooking pancakes for breakfast.

I live with my mom alone, for a good eight years now, ever since my father left when I was eleven with a promise of coming back. Some part of me is still holding on to that promise. The wiser part of me knows better than to hold on to something so far away. Some days, I cry but most of the time, I have learned not to care. Besides, I have Pearl with me and she's been nothing but a great and loving mother.

"Sweetie, breakfast is ready." My mother called from the kitchen. I took a sip from my starry starry night mug before I proceeded to the kitchen.

"How's my artist?" she greeted me with a smile. I took one wooden chair and sat comfortably. She took one and settled in herself.

I scoffed. "There's no such thing."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, darling. You will be able to create something, someday. I know you will." She said as an attempt to lift my spirits up.

"Yeah, sure. A baby, probably." I answered while getting myself two pancakes and some bacon.

"Shh!" She looked at me slightly bothered and scolded me. "Stop saying nonsense. You can't even get yourself a boyfriend." she added trying not to grin. "Wait, something's missing." Her expression shifted from teasing to questioning.

I laughed. "Syrup, mom." I answered and she hurried to fetch the syrup from the cabinet. I turned to look at her from the dining table. "And that's because I don't want to get one."

That's basically how my mornings are. My mother and I talk without restrictions, as long as it is legal and proper, and that's one of the best things about her. She treats me not only as her daughter, but also as her friend, and as a girl of my own. She's the right amount of strict and carefree, you would feel free but not lost, secured but not imprisoned.